


Fields of Juniper and Lamplight

by afrikate



Category: Mrs. Pollifax - Dorothy Gilman
Genre: 5 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Epistolary, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-19 15:44:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17004486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrikate/pseuds/afrikate
Summary: Five times John and Emily exchanged a correspondence.





	Fields of Juniper and Lamplight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Niki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niki/gifts).



> Canon-compliant, but drawing on your suggestion of a Craig!Bond-Dench!M relationship. I hope you have the most wonderful of holidays!

**1\. Aerogram**

Farrell took a sip of his scotch and contemplated the pale blue aerogram with the New Brunswick, New Jersey, USA, return address sitting on his desk blotter. It wasn’t the first time he’d received mail from the Duchess, but he was rather bemused that this time was an _aerogram_ of all things. Surely, if she had to write a letter, a woman like the Duchess had monogrammed stationery,

Farrell placed his drink on the desk, swearing softly as he splashed scotch onto his hand. He brushed it away, then picked up the aerogram, turning it over and over in his hands. In December, he’d received a Christmas card from her, a gaudy photo of poinsettias on the front. In reply, he’d dashed off a note on one of the gallery’s postcards, dropping it in the office’s outgoing mail pile and forgetting about it.

Well, mostly forgetting about it. He’d remembered it at odd times: as he was dropping off to sleep; mixing paints to try to get the right pink; during a lull in conversation on his last date with Gabriela. But he certainly hadn’t expected the correspondence to continue. After all, several days spent in an Albanian prison and a wild escape was _memorable_ , but not exactly the basis for a firm friendship. If they weren’t talking about the mission (and they definitely shouldn’t, Carstairs had been _very_ clear), then they didn’t have much to talk about. He glanced down at the letter again, soft and flimsy, but with the clear imprint of pen on paper inside. An aerogram seemed to indicate the writer had a lot she wanted to say.

Eventually, Farrell picked up the metal letter opener that he always kept on the desk-- easy to reach in case he needed a weapon-- and slit open the sides of the aerogram carefully. It was dated over a week ago and the opening lines read, “ _Dear Farrell, I hope this letter finds you well. Isn’t this paper ingenious? At the post office last week, the dear lady who works behind the counter, Isabel, told me all about these aerograms. I’d been intending to write you and form and function just came together…_ ”

Farrell smiled, shaking his head. He picked up his glass, taking a sip, and leaned back in the chair to read whatever the Duchess had to say.

 

 

**2\. Package**

The buzzer was loud and unexpected, dropping Mrs. Pollifax right out of her morning meditation. She frowned for a moment, sighed once again at her inability to achieve the full lotus position, then shook her head, untangled her legs, and hurried to the intercom.

It buzzed a second time right before she reached it, so she didn’t bother to stop and catch her breath before she answered. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Pollifax, good morning,” came the cheerful voice over the crackle of the intercom. “I have a rather large package for you, and I didn’t want to leave it in the middle of the mailroom.”

“I’ll be right down, Mr. Morrissey.” Mrs. Pollifax pulled a light sweater on, then headed downstairs, where she found Mr. Morrissey and Miss Hartshorne, both standing before a large, oddly shaped package.

It was wrapped in brown paper and under that must have been a box. It was tall and long, perhaps 3 feet by 4 feet, but no more than ten inches wide. “It’s quite heavy,” Mr. Morrissey told her. He looked doubtfully at her and Miss Hartshorne. “I can help you get it to the elevator, do you ladies think you can get it from there to 4-A?”

Miss Hartshorne looked annoyed, either at the assumption she would help or, much more likely, at the assumption that they, mere ladies, couldn’t handle the package. Miss Hartshorne had been reading Women’s Liberation treatises lately.

"Thank you very much for the help, Mr. Morrissey,” Mrs. Pollifax said warmly, eyeing Miss Hartshorne with caution. “We will absolutely be able to get it into my apartment.”

Miss Hartshorne settled back, unruffling. “Yes, young man, of course.”

It took them rather a lot of pushing and pulling to get the box in her front door— something about it was heavier than expected. Mrs. Pollifax offered Miss Hartshorne tea, and while it was brewing she went to get her shears.  

Back in the living room, Mrs. Pollifax found Miss Hartshorne bending over the box to examine the address. “Emily,” Miss Hartshorne rose, using the box to steady herself, “this package is from Mexico. It’s been quite a few years since you visited, hasn’t it?”

“At least two, yes.” Mrs. Pollifax raised her shears and attacked the paper. “Though I do keep up a correspondence with some people that I met there.”

The paper, once removed, revealed a sturdy wooden box. Miss Hartshorne shook her head. “I’m afraid those scissors aren’t going to be much help, Emily.”

“You’re right, of course.” Emily put them down, then headed back down the hallway. “Wait a moment, Roger insisted I keep a toolbox, let me pull it out.”

It took some time and several of the tools Mrs. Pollifax kept tucked away at the back of the coat closet, but eventually they got it open.

“Well,” said Mrs. Pollifax, beaming.

“It’s very nice,” allowed Miss Hartshorne. She stared at the stretched canvas a little longer then ventured, “The landscape is rather, well, stark.”

Mrs. Pollifax smiled, thinking of the pine scent in the air and the mountains rising behind the small tower in the Albanian countryside. “It is, a bit. But very well executed.”

After tea and coffee cake, Miss Hartshorne left and Mrs. Pollifax carefully pulled the painting from its packaging, finding it much lighter than she expected. Removing the painting, however, revealed two more paintings, each about half the size of the first, and appealingly framed with carved wood.

The painting on the right was another landscape, a tropical scene with an explosion of flowers and plants. The detail on the tiny leaves was exquisite, and Mrs. Pollifax leaned forward for a moment to study them. She hovered her finger above the paint, just a hairsbreadth from touching it.

Then, gathering her courage, she straightened and turned to look at the second painting. This, too, had a tropical feel—a figure on a beach, trees and vines surrounding it. But the figure, looking off to the left and smiling, was her own. She stepped closer and traced her own flyaway hair, the shape of her floppy sun hat with its three large blossoms.

The painting had some indefinable quality that made her think of happiness. Or perhaps, she thought, it was merely that she had been happy, very happy, spending the day with Farrell, the two of them just talking and joking on the beach. It had been the first time on their shared mission that Farrell hadn’t been acting the playboy, chasing young women and gambling. That day, they’d merely been conducting low-stakes surveillance, and she’d really had a delightful time.

She stood looking at the paintings for some time before carefully tugging them from their packaging. Lifting up her portrait, she heard a crinkling sound. Upon turning it around, she found an envelope addressed in a familiar hand taped to the wire at the back.

 

 

> _Well, Duchess,_ _something about that last mission seems to have unlocked something. I’ve been painting like a madman again, and shockingly the damn things are selling._
> 
> _After our conversation that day on the beach, I wanted you to know how I see you. I hope you excuse the liberty I took with your hat—the pink flowers suit you better than the blue._
> 
> _If the invitation is still open, I would love to come and visit with you. Hopefully the sight of a Bohemian painter won’t scandalize your Miss Hartshorne._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _John_

Mrs.Pollifax closed her eyes, hearing the surf and smelling the Caribbean air again. She remembered John taking a photo of her, remembered extending an invitation to him, safe in the knowledge that he’d be unlikely to take her up on it. She opened her eyes again, bending down to trace the carved frame of her portrait, intricate flowers and birds that somehow didn’t distract the eye from the laughing woman in the painting.

‘Oh,’ she thought. ‘Oh.’ And then Mrs. Pollifax hurried to her desk to answer John’s letter.

 

 

**3\. Dear John**

“It was,” Emily said loyally, sitting on the loveseat and watching John pace across the hotel room, “a very good letter.”

John turned and stared at her in frustration. “It was a Dear John letter and it was cruel.”

“Well, yes.” Emily nodded. “That was the point of it, of course. And,” she looked briefly down to where her hands lay, carefully folded in her lap, “it was effective.”

When she looked up again, John was watching her carefully, his normally mobile face still. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, he met her gaze squarely for the first time since they’d been released by Carstairs. “I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it.”

“Well.” She considered her next words carefully. After this week, this terrible week, it was hard not to be guarded. “I know _you_ didn’t, because you aren’t a cruel person. It was a role you were playing.”

She took a breath— _Courage, Emily!_ —and looked up at him, letting her mask drop. Her eyes grew wet as she recalled the words, and it took a lot to keep her voice steady. “But I can’t say that the words didn’t hit home. Everyone—almost everyone—told me how foolish I was to pursue a relationship, a– a marriage with a younger man. That I was ridiculous for thinking that this,” she waved a hand between them, “could work. And that letter,” her voice wavered. She blinked rapidly, willing herself to keep the tears back. Above her, she heard John inhale roughly. She stared down at her wedding band, then looked up into his eyes. “It brought it all back, you see, and for a moment, I believed it. And even when I realized what must be happening, I still believed it a little.” She shrugged and gave a painful laugh. “I had to believe it, for it to work, and it did.”

The lines on John’s face seemed to be etched deeper than usual, and his voice was grave. “It was a terrible thing to do, and I knew as I wrote it.” He took a deep breath, and it looked like it hurt him to exhale. “It honestly was all I could think of to throw them off the scent and give you some breathing room. I knew it would make you look foolish—” He clenched his fist, and Emily knew that meant he was furious at himself. “But if if you looked foolish, you would be underestimated. I badly needed them to underestimate you.”

It made her want to smile, because people were always underestimating her. And then his next words finally made the tears spill over. “And as bloody usual, Duchess, you were brilliant. You rose above my wildest expectations— Damn it!”

John was there, suddenly, hands confident as he took her into his arms, cradled her against his shoulder. Emily cursed herself— usually she could remain calm during difficult discussions, it was one of her many strengths as a partner and agent, and now she was reduced to a blubbering mess.

John held her and rubbed her back, her shoulder, until she got herself under control again. Then he helped her sit up and handed her a tissue so she could blow her nose. It was only then, once she’d balled the tissue up, that he cradled her face in his hands. “I love you, Emily. And I shouldn’t have considered this as an option. I should have found another way. I’m so sorry that I— that I hurt you.”

Emily felt that her smile was lopsided. “It worked, though.”

“Yes,” he said, regretfully, “it did. But I refuse to do that to you, to _us_ , again.” He slid to his knees on the floor beside her, taking her left hand in his, kissing her ring. “I promise. For better or worse.”

Emily blinked, tears threatening again, and let her right hand cup his cheek, thumb running over his jawline. “All right, John. I’ll hold you to it.”

 

 

**4\. Telegram**

DEAREST DARLING DUCHESS STOP UNPRINTABLE UNPRINTABLE UNPRINTABLE STOP CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU STOP AND HAT OF COURSE ALL MY LOVE JSF

 

 

**5\. Last Letter**

> _Dearest Duchess,_
> 
> _You know what this letter is. I’m sure you’ve written one to me as well, and put it in Bishop’s ghoulish little file. I hate that I have to write this letter at all, but we both know the world we inhabit. And I’d rather leave behind my own words to you than some damn bureaucrat’s sad attempt at condolences._
> 
> _After my first trip to visit you, Juan and I were drinking at El Calle and he’d had enough to ask the question, and to ask it baldly. “So this lady,” he says, “she is quite a bit older, si?” At my nod, he continued, “What is the appeal, my friend? Unless,” he took another sip of his tequila, “she is rich, of course, and you will have a nice insurance pay-out.”_
> 
>  

Here, Emily put down the letter for a moment to laugh. _Dear_ Juan. A delightful rascal of a man and, really, very practical.

> _I’m not sure what I said to Juan, something to make him laugh and put him off, but it stuck with me, what he said. In the normal run of things, a relationship such as ours wouldn’t happen in the first place. Since it did, it should end with me surviving you. And certainly Juan’s conclusion is one a number of people will have drawn, one way or another. But given the life we lead, and after St. Tropez, well… I knew I had to make a choice. The missions had been getting worse for a while, and I could either expect to lay down my life for God and Country or tell Carstairs to shove it next time he came calling. The third option, our partnership, was like a bolt out of the blue, and I decided I’d rather take the ridiculous risks with you, than do it alone or live safe and grow bored, drinking too much and dating women who never got older while I… did._
> 
> _Really, Duchess, when I thought about it, it wasn’t a hard choice. I’d rather have fewer days with you and a hell of a lot more fun._
> 
> _You know all the details of the Galeria and you’ll get my pension from Carstairs’ lot. I love you, darling Duchess, and the only thing I regret, still, is making you feel foolish in Buenos Aires. I’m damned sorry to leave you like this._
> 
> _All my love,_
> 
> _John_
> 
>  

Emily sat, holding the letter, for a long time. Eventually, she brought her hands up to her face and let flow the tears she’d been holding back— through the debrief, through packing up, through the several hours travel back to New Brunswick and their cramped little apartment that felt far too empty now. Eventually, she gave in and sobbed, burying her face in the lemon-yellow crocheted afghan on the back of the couch. The thought, ‘John always hated that afghan,’ crossed her mind, and it just made her sob harder.

Emily came back to herself slowly, waking from a deep sleep to a hand shaking her shoulder. Her first thought was, ‘John!’ and her second was the memory that John was dead. Her eyes flew open, then, because no one else should be in the apartment and she tried to take a steadying breath for a karate strike.

“It’s me, Duchess.” John looked awful, eyes bloodshot and left arm cradled against his chest in a sling. “I swear I’m alive, but only just, and if you’re going to try karate on me, I’m not sure I’ll survive it.”

“John?” Emily looked him up and down, eyes drinking him in. “John, dearest, but--” She swallowed, hard, taking in every line of that beloved face. “Carstairs said you were dead. What _happened_ , John?”

John’s face suddenly went grey, and she was up quickly, slipping under his shoulder and helping lower him to the couch. “Sorry, sorry, Duchess. I’ve got two broken ribs to go along with this damned arm. I just moved the wrong way.” He winced, then winced again when he saw the afghan she was pulling around his shoulders. “This horrible thing, Emily? Really? I’m just back from the dead, do you really want to kill me?”

Emily looked down at him, shaking her head and unable to contain a laugh. “You dreadful man.”

“You know I hate to see you cry,” John said. His fingers flexed in the afghan. “And you seemed damned close just now.”

Emily frowned at him quellingly. “I think I deserve a few tears, don’t I?” She brushed her hand through his hair. “How on earth did you get away? And why didn’t Carstairs and Bishop _tell me?”_

“Ah.” John looked abashed. “That would be because they don’t know yet.”

“What?!”

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “I couldn’t bear to go in for a debrief when you still thought—” He cut himself off, kissing her hand again. “I’m starving, Duchess. Can we kill the fatted calf now and call the dynamic duo later?”

Emily looked over his dear face once again, then leaned in and kissed him. His mouth was sour, tasting of old blood, and she still had to force herself to pull back. “You’re in luck—Miss Hartshorne did some shopping for us, I saw a package of roast beef in the fridge. I’ll make you a sandwich and then call Carstairs.”

John smiled up at her tiredly. “You’re a wonder, Duchess.”

She leaned down to kiss him again. Whispering in his ear, she said, “Fewer days is fine, John. But let’s make it a few more yet.”

His hand tightened on her shoulder. “Hear hear, Duchess. Hear hear.”


End file.
